


A Week of Eremarco

by In_agony_and_ecstasy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Acceptance, Adventures, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Autumn, Bonfires, Books, Cafes, Concerts, Dancing, Dogs, Eren POV, First Date, First Kiss, Insecurities, Libraries, M/M, Menstruation, Music, Oceans, Road Trips, Second Date, Secrets, Stars, Sweaters, Trans Male Character, Traveling, Writing, eremarco - Freeform, fall - Freeform, shark week, trans!eren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4581672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_agony_and_ecstasy/pseuds/In_agony_and_ecstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren and Marco meet one night when Marco walks into the library Eren is working at. The two of them talk about books together, and Eren feels like this could really be something, if only he got the courage to ask Marco out. </p><p>As luck would have it, he finds the courage to ask, and Marco and he begin dating.</p><p>With each passing date Eren falls harder for Marco, and wants to be with him as long as he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I'm gonna try to do eremarco week. Enjoy!

I’m working in the library when he walks in grin-and-dimples first, with brown skin – even darker than my own – that warms the room and freckles spread like firework’s sparks across every span of skin. He walks up to the counter and hands me his library card. I wonder why I’ve never seen him before. I spend more time than I want to here and he looks like he’s ready to move in. 

“Hello,” he says. He smells like mint and rain water. The sky has been gray, but perhaps it’s been waiting for him to walk in and blind the dust-covered corners of the bookshelves most hidden, the ones that haven’t seen light like him in so long. 

I think I manage some sort of greeting, hopefully he heard, “Can I help you find something?”

He speaks again. He needs this book, the one made of short stories that everyone knows. He needs this other book, the one written in Spanish first. He asks, as if it doesn’t matter but I can tell it does, whether or not we have the Spanish version. My heart is tugged by an invisible cord between us. He’s not Latino like me, but surely he speaks my language. I want to see the shape of my words on his mouth. 

“Uh…yeah, we have a Spanish section.” I gesture to the entire library because I’m too dizzy to think of where it is at the moment. He is as likely as me to find it right now.

In a haze I glide up the stairs to the section the first book he requested dwells. This collection of short stories is written by some of the greatest authors of our time, and sometimes I think about how one author can write a story that’s ten pages long and it will change hundreds of lives, and a different author will spend a lifetime on five hundred pages and no one else will ever lay eyes on that collection of words but him. Who decides which words have more value? 

I hand him the book. He holds it in his hands like a rose, he wouldn’t want the pages to wilt. 

The second book, the one written in Spanish is on the other side of the library. He follows behind me. Our paces pat against the hardwood, they sync together like two heartbeats. I can’t tell which is mine. 

When I reach the right shelf, I know where the book rests like home. I reach for it, trail the pads of my fingers down the paper-back cover and hand it to him. 

“Thank you,” he says, “I can’t find a bookstore that sells it.”

“Do you speak Spanish?” I ask, but it’s as if I’m hearing someone else ask. The voice sounds weak and breathless. His eyes are a kaleidoscope of browns, and each time he smiles they squint into crescent moons. In the florescent lighting they glint. 

He chuckles and it sounds like bells. My day has been long and dull. My mind has been as stagnant as the books. I feel like I’m dreaming with him next to me. We walk back down the stairs.

“I’m learning,” he says, “I’ve been learning for a long time.”

“I’ve been learning English for a long time. I don’t know that anyone ever stops learning a language.” My voice is stronger now. The room is coming back into focus and my manners have caught up with my cluttered thoughts. 

He smiles. “You speak Spanish?”

“It’s my first language.”

We talk as he checks out the book. He’s a junior, like me, at the same university. He’s a writing major, a Spanish minor. He wants to write short stories in Spanish someday, children’s books if he can. He asks me what I want to do. I shrug. I want to travel, but that’s not a job. He laughs.

“Neither is writing,” he responds. 

Then, just before he goes and I have to experience the pinch of heartache that he may have been a kiss, a first apartment, a lover, a husband, a father, a someone-to-grow-old-with that I let zoom past, he asks in a small, yet confident voice, “You know, I’ve been trying to understand something for a while. My teacher doesn’t know either.” 

He flips through the pages of the book written in Spanish.

“Yeah?” My voice is high and breathy, like I’m flying.

“Why is it written like this?” He turns the book to face me. One long, slender finger underlines a sentence. I stare. I can’t think of another way to write that, but explain it to him anyway. 

Somehow – maybe someone’s been looking down on me today, maybe He knows I needed a break – he and I choose a table to sit at near the windows that reach for the ceiling. Rain patters along the glass, and it flows down into a gray mural.

He asks questions. I answer them. For once, I’m teaching Spanish, not learning English. It feels right. But that could be because he’s happy to learn, and I want to make him happy. 

“I’m Marco,” he finally says, once night has begun to creep into the sky. We both bought coffee at the library’s café. He worried that my boss will notice I’m not at the front desk. I’m the only manager working right now, so it doesn’t matter. No one’s come in but him today. I’m grateful for it. 

“Eren,” I respond, as I sip at my coffee. 

“This has been nice.” 

I nod. Every feeling I’ve ever had is still fluttering in my stomach, swarming, making me sick. My face heats up. He’s handsome, and kind, and smart. He doesn’t just wait to speak, he listens when I tell him about Mexico, and my sister, and my dogs, and the books I’ve read this year. He smiles often, more often than I can ever imagine smiling. I smile more because of him. My face aches and it feels so good. 

Marco’s fingers fiddle with the lid to his coffee. He looks down at his lap, then at the windows. “You close soon?” he asks.

“We do,” I answer.

A silence falls over us like snow. I want to ask him out. But I know I won’t - I don’t know if he’s interested in men, after all. He’ll leave. The next few weeks will be spent glancing at the door, hope buried deep within me, almost so deep I can ignore it, that a smile surrounded by specks of freckles will frolic through the door. 

“I’ve had such a good time,” he says, “Today I got stood up. I came here to take my mind off it with books…and I got you instead. But, I think you’re better company.” He laughs, but an ounce of hurt and embarrassment seeps in.

“Who would stand you up?” I demand, my voice cutting sharp through an otherwise soft conversation.

Marco blushes. “Some guy. Doesn’t matter.” It matters, I know. 

A moment passes. His worry of rejection or hate floods the room. He’s waiting for me to be uncomfortable, awkward, and rush our conversation.

All those things could happen but not in the way he thinks. 

With some bravery, and a reminder to myself he might never return and I might never have to face my shame again, I say, “I wouldn’t have stood you up. I won’t…if you – if you’d go out with me.”

Marco’s eyebrow raise. He looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe. But then a smile bursts from him and my heart kick-starts when I hear him say, “Really? You’re…you want to take me out?’

I nod. “If you want. I mean, you know, you don’t have –”

“I feel like we’ve already been on a date,” he says.

I think about it. “You’re right.”

He leans into me. “Let’s just say it was. We were on a date the whole time. How was it?” 

“It was…” I start. I swallow, hoping I don’t sound too desperate. “Really kind of amazing.”

Nearby, the barista in the café begins stacking chairs upside down on tables. They clack, interrupting this night. I remember what time it is, I remember reality and the existence of the outside world.

“We’re closing,” I say. 

Marco is standing, picking up his books. I stand with him. It’s late, but I don’t want him to go. 

At the front desk, Marco writes down his number. In front of him, I put it in my phone and text him. He shows me the text, still grinning. I walk him to the exit as if it were the front door of his house. 

Just before he goes, and just before I tell him I’ll text him, he turns to face me. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

My voice has fled so I only nod. 

The night sits still, but the earth spins under my feet as he leans into me. His hands slide around my waist, grounding me, and then I feel his lips. They’re soft, and warm, and feel like possibilities. I want to kiss him again and again and again. I can believe it will happen next time. I know there is going to be a next time. I’m happier than I have been in so long. 

He looks me in the eyes before he opens the door. “I’m looking forward to our second date,” he says, smiling as he steps out the door.

His silhouette disappears in the night and drizzle.

I whisper, “Me too.”


	2. Concerts

The room is packed wall to wall with jumping, dancing, and spinning people. They step on my feet, and shove into me, spilling their drinks and apologizing to the wrong person. Marco is taller, much taller than me and I grip on to his hand so that he can weave us through the crowd. Even if I wanted to, I can’t make my eyes stray from him. 

The music slams against my eardrums, pounding hard with the beat. Marco picked the band. I’ve never heard of them, but he assured me they’re good and they are. Still, sweat trickles down the nape of my neck all the way down to my back. My brown bangs are slicked against my forehead. I keep wondering what Marco thinks. If he thinks I look gross. Or if he thinks I’m lame because I’ve never been to a concert. 

He looks like the band is here to see him. He sweats too, but it’s not so sticky and persistent. His tank top is neon green, so I won’t lose him in the crowd. His eyes are bright, flashing every color with the strobe lights speeding around the room in sporadic, random directions like massive lightning bugs. When the singer announces their next song Marco jumps and claps his hands together. He turns to face me. 

“I love this one,” he yells. He’s been yelling all night and hasn’t lost his voice yet. Mine’s already scratchy. I don’t mind listening to him more anyway. It’s our second date, and I can’t learn enough about him. 

His parents are from New York, and he misses his home. He doesn’t have siblings but wishes he did. It seems he’s passionate about anything, gardening, movies, cooking, swimming, taking pictures (he’s taken at least a dozen pictures of us already. In each my eyes are on him, not the camera and it makes him laugh). It could be that Marco is one of those few people that actually does live every moment of his life, even the moments that hurt, the ones that maybe would be easier not to live through. After all, last Saturday he got stood up and he went out in the rain, and walked into the library with a grin on his face anyway. I think I need his light in my life, because if it was me that got stood up, I would have stayed in bed in the dark all day. 

The guitarist starts strumming. The singer taps their foot. The drummer’s beat hammers loud inside the small club. The crowd starts waving and spinning with the melodic sound of the singer’s voice. Their stomping, and thriving is throbbing, like blood rushing or rain pouring or traffic stopping, starting, stopping, starting. They become their own instrument, just part of the song. 

Marco is one of them. People talk about “dancing like nobody is watching”, but I don’t think that is what Marco is doing. His arms fan out, reaching for the ceiling. He twirls. His head is thrown back. He grins the whole time, with his eyes closed as if he’s falling through the clouds. He doesn’t dance like nobody is watching because he doesn’t mind if they are. He dances for himself, and he’s somewhere else. I wish I could go with. 

When the song ends Marco swivels his way my direction again. His hands are on my waist, his forehead pressed against mine, and those eyes so close, looking right into me. 

“Are you too cool to dance?” he asks.

I blush, but he can’t see. I’m not even close to too cool for it. I say, “Dancing is too cool for me.”

Marco snorts and kisses my forehead. As if the universe has been waiting just for this moment, just for the moment Marco would hold me so close, a beat began to thrum and the singer’s words draw out, long and high. A slow song is the just the excuse Marco needs.

“Here,” he says, and his voice is lower now that the people dancing around us aren’t so all-over-the-place. Some have lighters out, illuminating the room gold and leaning left and right like wheat in a breeze. The reflections of the flames make Marco’s irises sparkle. My heart is the strongest beat in the room this time. 

His hands place my own on his shoulders, and his return to my waist.

“I’ll lead the way,” he says. I think that’s good, because all I want to do is fallow him.

He guides me. I stare at his feet the whole time. When one of his feet moves back, mine moves forward, and we move to the side together. Because he’s so cheery, and because he isn’t paying any attention to anyone else, I don’t feel so embarrassed about tripping over myself. He holds on to just one of my hands, before he leans in and his arm pushes out. Without my permission I twirl away. A tug, and I’m back in his arms. My cheeks are fuming as I think about everyone around me watching. Some clap, and some just stare. Some giggle but Marco doesn’t notice. When he kisses me again, I stop noticing too.

The music fades farther and farther away, like an echo. The people blur around me, walking by. We sit still, kiss slow, and make it last. He pulls me so close, nothing but breath between us. My hand rests on his neck. His pulse is steady, strong under my palm. I stand on my toes. Marco takes this as an invitation, and his arms lift me off the ground. As he kisses me, we spin, and I clutch onto him like we’re on a tight-rope balancing. He laughs as he easing me back on to the ground, but I feel even higher than before. His hands grip onto mine. 

“Thank you for taking me here,” he says.

He doesn’t understand that I want to take him anywhere I can. “No problem. I wanted to.”

Marco shakes his head. “I think you’re too much of a librarian for concerts.”

“I am not,” I grumble and he giggles.

“Still,” he says, “We’ll go somewhere quieter next time.”

“Next time?” Even though I fight it, my grin tries to hug my ears. 

Marco just smiles. 

Once more the music blasts and I feel it ricochet through my chest. We startle, but Marco’s already caught up with time again. He’s dancing once more.

I watch nothing but Marco as the music plays just for him.


	3. Secrets

My alarm clock isn’t what wakes me. The first thing I’m aware of is an intense, building ache low in my stomach. Before I even open my eyes, I curl into the fetal position in bed. My arm wraps around my stomach. With each passing second the pain weighs down on me, pinning me to my bed. 

My eyelids peel open and I glance at the clock. It’s almost noon. I’m supposed to meet Marco at the movies in a few hours. 

I rise out of bed and stumble toward my bathroom. If I want to have any chance at all of seeing him, I have to go through the routine. I shower and the heat soothes the ache just a little. My joints loosen up. If I don’t look down, I can almost pretend this isn’t happening to me. I can almost pretend I have the body I picture in my mind, the one I’m supposed to have.

The next step is to change into women’s underwear, not boxers. Line them with a pad. 

Get dressed. All I can stand are sweatpants and a sweatshirt several sizes too big for my skinny frame.

Drink water, swallow back Midol. Try to eat breakfast, try not to feel sick. Make tea. Grab the heating pad. Retreat to my bedroom, plug the heating pad in, press it against my stomach. Drink the tea. Curl up in the blankets until I could drown in them and never be seen again. Pray it goes away, so that I don’t have to cancel our date.

If I cancel our date he’ll think I’m not interested in him. If I tell him what’s wrong, he won’t be interested in me. 

But the hours tick. The clock rubs the time in my face. I’m still curled up in my bed. All I’ve accomplished today is reading, staring at a wall, and curling up with Titan, one of my huskies. The other doesn’t love me enough, because she’s still in the living room. 

When the movie is less than an hour away I stop lying to myself. I can’t let myself stand him up. I promised him I wouldn’t. I don’t want to anyway. 

But I know if I get out of bed, the pain is going to swoon. I won’t be able to think about anything else. 

So I reach for my cellphone sitting on the table. I scroll through my contacts to Marco’s number. I hesitate, staring at the shape of his name on my phone, thinking about how even his name makes my heart skip once or twice. 

I call him.

“Hello,” he answers. His voice is bright, cheery as always. I picture him outside in the sun. Like me, he’s always a little happier when he’s outside. I love that about him. 

“Hey, Marco,” I start, “I’m…I know this sounds bad, but…I’m sick.”

“Oh,” he mumbles. He doesn’t try to hide his disappointment. My chest feels hollow, I feel so awful for doing this. I know, because he’s Marco, he’ll give me the benefit of the doubt. He’ll want to believe I’m not lying to him, but I know he truly doesn’t. “That’s okay, I’ll see the movie with someone else.”

This brings to mind the image of Marco holding some other guy’s hand. I picture him leaning on that man’s shoulder in the movies, sharing a bin of popcorn. He’s laughing at everything that guy says, and he can’t stop covering his mouth like he does when he’s embarrassed. The two of them walk out of the theatre together, and before they leave the entrance Marco leans in and kisses him. 

“No, wait,” I say, even though I know he didn’t mean he’d go on a date with someone else. He meant someone who’s just a friend. Still, I can’t risk losing him already. My hand strokes titan’s fur, my heartbeat panics and the nausea is spinning in my stomach. I have to tell him. I knew all along I’d have to tell him sooner or later, of course. So I guess losing him now is as good a time as any. At least he’ll know that I’m not passive-aggressively dumping him by ignoring him until he stops contacting me. 

“Yeah?” he says. The hope in his voice pinches me. 

“Listen, Marco…I’m trans.” 

I go through the motions. This is what trans means. This is how I knew. This is when I decided to transition. This is when I got my top surgery. No, I haven’t had bottom surgery. No, I’m not going to. No, this isn’t the name I was born with. Yes, my new name is legal. No, sexuality doesn’t work that way. Gender doesn’t work that way. This is just who I am. 

Marco listens. He asks questions, but unlike with other people he listens to what I say. When I tell him why I feel something, or why something is, he doesn’t argue it. He trusts that I know what I’m talking about. He trusts that I know myself better than him. And when he asks questions, it is to know me better. He still wants to know me, even this part of me. When I’ve told other people, it’s never been like this. Something inside me soars at the thought of this working. I try to cage that flying feeling, keep it pinned down, stop myself from getting my hopes up but then –

“Thank you for telling me,” Marco says, “But I don’t understand why we can’t go on our date?”

Any chances of caging it plummets and my body feels so light, and high that a grin bursts out of me and I swing into a sitting position. Even titan whips his head around to see what I’m doing. 

I’m about to say a hundred things at once, all the words I’ve saved up inside of me since I was young, just waiting for the right person to step into my life. The one that would finally give me a reason to say thank you. 

But first, the awkward part. “It’s, uh, my, you know…” My voice gets so tiny. So small, I hope the words can’t trek through the phone cord and make it to him. “My time of the month.”

Marco doesn’t respond for a moment. “So, you can’t come because…you’re…?”

I blush, and cover my face as I explain. “I’m cramping. It’s giving me hell.”

Marco chuckles at my tone. A moment passes and I almost can’t breathe. Then he says, “Can I come see you?”

Marco dropped me off at my place the day of the concert, so he already knows my house. Twenty minutes after he hung up the phone, I hear the knock. I text him, tell him the door is open, that way I don’t have to get up. 

Marco enters. He calls for me. After I yell from my bedroom, he enters through the door with Lady by his side. She looks very excited to see him, but not as excited as he is to see her. He’s giggling and bending down to pet her and coo at her. He’s so adorable it’s like looking at the sun, I can’t even watch. 

Then he sits in the bed with me, on the other side, so he doesn’t disturb Titan’s sleep. Lady hops up on the bed and curls up with Marco. He turns to kiss me. He rests his hand on my stomach. This feels right. 

“I brought soup,” he says, “It’s in the kitchen. I figured even if soup doesn’t help, it can’t make it worse.”

I chuckle. His arm slides around my shoulders, and I tuck my head into his chest. My TV is on, but I’m not watching it. We pick out a movie to watch, so we can still have our date. Marco holds me. His hand rubs my back. He heats up the soup when I ask. He does all of this while smiling at me. 

By the end of the movie, I look up at him and say, “Thank you.” 

I mean, thank you for accepting me. Thank you for talking to me still. Thank you for not being mad that I didn’t tell you right away. Thank you for not accusing me of trying to trick you. Thank you for kissing me like I’m still the Eren you met at the library. Thank you for not minding at all that this is how it will be with me. Thank you for being happy with me anyway. 

But he says, “Oh, don’t worry about it. The soup was nothing.” 

I laugh, and he looks at me like he’s confused. The ending to the movie isn’t funny, and he didn’t make a joke, after all. 

I kiss him, and whatever he’s thinking, he lets it go.


	4. Sweater Weather

From the moment my shift started, I waited for it to end. Now, as I’m rummaging through the array of books turned in to us today, sorting them, reading the backs of them, pretending I’m doing work, the clock reads five minutes to my escape. It’s nearly seven pm., and Marco should already be on his way. 

Just before the café officially closes, I rush up to the counter, order two, large hot chocolates, pay, and wait at the end of the bar. My fingers are tapping, my hips are shifting, my heart is pounding, and I count the beats trying to calm myself, because counting the seconds requires more patience and gives me too much time to think. 

The expresso machine hisses. The steam wand screeches as the steam rises from behind the counter. Chocolate powder puffs into the air as the mocha canister is opened. All these sounds feel like they’re coming from inside my head. At least, if I focus on them I don’t have to be so nervous.

Tonight, I’m staying at Marco’s. 

The barista calls out my order, even though I’m the only person in the café. I carry the drinks toward the exit. I’ve already punched out for the day. Someone else is closing tonight so I don’t have to worry about locking up. 

Outside, the sun is setting. The sky looks like paint spread across a canvas, pastel purple and pink bleeding into warm orange and yellow. The sidewalk is lined with maple trees, all clustered with bronzed leaves, waving, about to be swept away in the breeze. 

Someone is walking towards the library. He gets closer, and then there’s the combed undercut parted down the middle, the deep brown skin, and beaming smile I know. In one hand, I old the drink carrier. Through the window, I wave to Marco with my free hand. He waves back, and then tucks his hands in his pockets, looking away from me like he’s shy even though nothing about Marco is shy. 

I step outside to greet him. The wind bites at my neck. It’s chillier than it was when I arrived at work. 

“Here,” I say, holding the drink carrier out to him. He takes one and thanks me. I take the other, and I toss the drink carrier in the nearest trash. My hands hug the cup. It’s my only source of warmth, and I’m anxious to get in Marco’s car. “Where did you park?” I ask, suddenly realizing earlier he walked from quite a ways. 

“I only live a few blocks away,” Marco responds. “I didn’t drive.”

The wind hits my back, sending a shiver down my spine. I hold the cup close to my chest. Marco notices my thin T-shirt, and the goosebumps on my arms. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, while we walk under the canopy of autumn leaves.

The walk to Marco’s is quick. He lives in a small rambler he’s renting. It’s sky blue, surrounded by a garden that looks like it’s been spoiled with care from Marco. I can picture him talking to his plants, telling them about his day and asking them if they need more water, if the weather has been treating them well, if the rabbits have been snuggling close to them at night. Supposedly, plants like hearing voices. I read that somewhere, I swear. 

I can’t believe I’ve been working at the library for three years, and all this time Marco has been no further than five blocks away from me. I feel robbed of those years. I could have met him sooner. I could have had more days with him near me. It’s so unfair. 

“This is home,” Marco says, as we step up on to his porch. 

My arms are hugged close. My hands rub my arms, trying to heat myself. Inside, the warmth of Marco’s house surrounds me. We finished our drinks on the walk over, and Marco takes my cup so the he can toss the two of him in his garbage. His home is small, but the walls are covered with pictures of his family, and the candles on his coffee table smell like apples, and his floor creaks under my weight like its tired and not used to company. It really is cozy. 

I’m finally feeling comfortable, but Marco isn’t satisfied. “Follow me.”

He leads me to his bedroom. It’s neat, unlike mine. He has shelves on each wall, crowded with books. Beside his bed stands his desk. On top sits a computer, among a vase of flowers, sticky notes, pens, and what I can only imagine is a journal. I wonder what he writes about me. 

On his bed rests a Spanish textbook. It’s opened and I smile. It’s a little strange to think that the language I think in, the words I use to describe the world I grew up in, are all printed in books so that they can be explained to people who want to listen to Spanish, not only hear it. 

Marco slides his closet door open. His hands card through all of his hanging clothes, until he selects an ugly Christmas sweater. Of course Marco would own one. I would expect nothing less. 

“Here,” he says.

“I can’t wear that,” I say, “I have some dignity.”

He feigns offense, pressing a hand against his chest. His jaw drops. “I wear this sweater, you know.”

“Yeah, but you’re cute. You’d make that sweater cute.”

He chuckles, but says, “You’re cold, aren’t you?”

I’m less cold than I was, but I consider whether or not I really want to pass up an opportunity to wear his clothes. It may be ugly, but it’s his. 

“Okay,” I give in. Without hesitating, I toss my own shirt off. Marco looks shocked, and I remember why I never undress unless I’m alone. I’m so comfortable around him now, I feel so safe, I forget. 

My hand reaches up to brush my fingers along my scars. I’m insecure, and Marco can tell I’m waiting for his reaction. But his expression says more than enough. When he looks at my scars, he doesn’t stare at them. He admires them. One of his hands reaches up, but before it touches me his eyes meet mine. He needs permission, and I nod. His fingertips trace my scars. I shiver, but not from the cold. Marco presses his hand against my chest. I know he can feel my heart through my skin because with each beat it’s reaching for him. He kisses me. 

When our lips part, the worry is gone and Marco has moved on. He gives me the sweater. I pull it on, almost getting lost inside of it, before my head sprouts through the neck whole and my hands slither through the sleeves. It’s huge on me. I grimace at the hideous reindeer design, but Marco gasps and covers his mouth. He’s smiling like I- _knew_ -it. 

“What?” I ask. What did he know? Why was he wearing that smirk? 

“So cute,” Marco breathes, and he kisses me until I forget to protest. 

We end up in his bed, like we were at my own place. Marco’s arm is wrapped around me like usual. His textbook rests in his lap, and I help him study. As night cloaks the world outside, and chills the air, I think that as long as Marco is nearby I’ll be warm forever.


	5. Stars

The water is too cold to swim in, but that doesn’t stop herds of people from coming and going to the beach throughout the day anyway. Today has been warm for October, probably the last warm day of the year, and Marco and I wanted to get out. It’s late enough now that everyone on the beach has calmed down. No more volley ball players, Frisbee games, boats sailing, or jet skis whipping across the waves. 

Now they’re all clustered around bonfires. Some are singing, or listening to music. They’re drinking, and laughing, and roasting marshmallows. But they’re all a ways down the beach from Marco and me. We have our own small bonfire going, and it cackles behind me as the wood cracks under the pressure of the heat. Marco lays on a blanket, near the fire, watching me wade into the water. My shoes are tossed away, and my feet sink into the damp sand before being tickled by the tips of the shallowest waves. A rush zips through me from the shock of the freezing water. I smile. Somehow, it feels nice. 

“Cold?” Marco asks. 

I turn to face him. “Freezing. You should come try it. Get your feet wet.”

Marco stands up. He kicks off his sandals as he joins me, leaving tracks in the sand just beside mine. If we stepped backward into them, back to the blanket, it would look like two people walked into the ocean holding hands and have never returned. 

Marco dips his toes in. He winces, but stays close. I reach for his hand and guide him in a little further, so our feet disappear under the water. 

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” I say. My feet didn’t feel the cold anymore. Just the small rise and fall of water lapping at my legs. The waves further out are crashing, overlapping, pounding into the beach floor and it’s a soothing, rhythmic sound, like the sound of blood rushing in my ears when I lay in bed and nothing else can be heard except Marco’s breathing nearby. 

“Not bad at all,” Marco agrees. He grips on to my hand, and the two of us look for the horizon together. The water is a deep blue, and the horizon line molds to it. 

My eyes follow the horizon upward into the night sky. I have to gasp, at first. We’re so far from the city I almost forgot. I tug Marco’s hand. He glances at me, so I point up. 

He too, gasps when he sees space right in front of us, as if we could just stand on our toes, reach up and touch it. So many stars spread out like diamonds spilled on a velvet blanket that’s been tie-dyed purples and blues and every other color there is. I think about how many of these stars have names, and how many billions of people and creatures have looked up and seen them in the past, and try to comprehend how far away they must be, and how many of them are surrounded by planets of their own, and how big the universe really is, and how insignificant my life is here on Earth – but I can’t. 

Not for the first time, as my gaze wanders toward Marco do I think that my existence may be insignificant, and I may not know all the answers, but it’s a miracle to exist at all. It’s a miracle that my parents met and fell in love, and happened to get pregnant when they did, and I happened to be born just twenty-one years ago, and I happen to live where I do now, and I happen to work at the library. It’s a miracle that Marco’s parents met and happened to get pregnant with him, and he happened to be born just twenty-two years ago, and he happened to move here when he did, and he happened to get stood up, and happened to walk into that library.

Because billions of other possibilities could have happened. I could have been born five hundred years ago, Marco could have been born in Australia instead. I could have gotten one of the other jobs I applied for first. Marco’s date could have showed up. Or neither of us could have been born at all.

But billions of coincidences stacked one-on-top-of-the-other over and over formed this moment in time, and now I was holding this amazing man’s hand – no one else’s out of my billions of options – as he looked up into the night sky, stargazing with awe in his eyes and freckles on his cheeks I’d rather gaze at. 

“I’ve never seen it like this,” Marco says.

“Me neither.” 

“Kind of makes me want to make my life mean something,” Marco says, under his breath. His eyes look into the sky like he’s making them a promise. 

And suddenly, I can’t stand to be in this water a moment longer. I tug him by his hand back toward our bonfire. It’s dwindling in the slight breeze, but the air is warm and thin. We don’t need the fire for anything more than light, and what we’re about to – maybe, if I’m not getting ahead of myself – won’t need light. 

We lay down on the plaid blanket Marco spread out on the sand. It’s quiet, besides the waves. Everyone on the beach has either left or gone too far away to notice us. I’m kissing him like I always do, sweet and tender and like always it’s never enough. But Marco’s right there with me when my hands roam over the buttons on his shirt, before one by one they’re undone. He’s right there with me when my own shirt is tugged over my head, when his shorts then mine are tugged off. And for every breathless second after, he’s right there with me until the end. 

Later, long after the fire is out and everyone has left. We lay on our backs, holding hands, looking up at the sky. Marco asks, “What do you think would make your life mean something?”

“What do you mean?”

“How would you leave your mark on Earth before you go? I want to write. But you?” he asks. His face is calm, content I think. He sounds serious, but I know he’s not being dark. 

“Travel everywhere I can,” I say. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Besides be with him. It reminds me of our first date, and I smile. Whenever I think about that day I feel like the sun is rising in my chest. 

Marco rolls over to face me. “Then we should.”  


“Together?” I ask. I have no desire to do it without him anymore, but we’ve only been on a few dates. I’m starting to think I want him right there with me for the rest of my life, but I don’t know if he feels the same, if he will be or not. 

He kisses me again. “Together.” 

I smile, as I let myself believe that he just might be.


	6. Adventures

As time goes on, Marco becomes more and more a part of my life. It’s strange to think that a couple months ago I didn’t even know he existed, and now everything in my life somehow all comes back to him. The music I play is now about him, even if it wasn’t before. The couch is always too big, too barren, when he isn’t sitting next to me. The silence in my room keeps me up at night, when he’s not beside me softly snoring. I have to turn the fan on. When I grocery shop, I have the foods I get for me, and then what I get for Marco. It’s just part of the routine. A day at a time, a tooth brush, cellphone charger, books, movies, sunglasses, contact lenses, body wash, sweatshirt, a vase of flowers, and cologne have all infiltrated my apartment and become part of my home. I hardly notice them. 

Now that he’s in my life I can’t imagine my life without him, and what scares me – exhilarates me – is I think he feels the same. I’m going to do everything I’ve ever dreamed of with him instead of alone. 

After our night spent on the beach talking about traveling, I assumed we were getting carried away. We wouldn’t _really_ travel anywhere any time soon. Someday, maybe. But someday is the date I’ve had marked on the calendar for when I’d begin travelling for a long time, and Marco isn’t having it. The day after we got back from the beach, as soon as we got home, we began planning. It would take days to plan, and weeks to save, but we’re doing it. That day, we spent most the afternoon planning.

While planning he asked, “Do you think of your life as a series of chapters or books?”

I stared at him for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

He smiled. “I mean, I think of my life as a book with many chapters. Before I met you, a chapter had just ended, then dating was a new chapter…and now that we’re –”

“So we’re exclusive?” I asked, changing the subject without really trying to.

Marco lifted his eyes from the computer screen to look at me. He looked hesitant, as if he thought he had said something too forward and would have to backtrack. “Well…if you want to be then –”

“I want to be,” I interrupted, “Do you want to be?”

He grinned. “Yeah.” I kissed him, and the two of us returned to the map on his laptop screen. 

I realize now, as I’m leaving work to walk to his place, that I never answered his book-metaphor question. I’m not sure I know the answer to it yet though.

When I reach his place, I don’t have to knock. I step inside, call for him, and he walks out of the bedroom to greet me. Tonight, we need to pack. Today is payday, and my last day of work before the time I’ve taken off for our trip. 

Marco pulls me into a hug at the door. I hum. He smells like honey today. Now that I’m around him enough, I can always tell when he’s been gardening or drinking tea. He always smells like one or the other. 

“Hear me out,” he starts.

I perk my head up, and quirk an eyebrow at him. “Are you packed?” 

“Yes, but hear me out.” 

“Okay.” We walk into his bedroom together. On his bed is a suitcase that looks like it would pop and deflate if I jabbed it with a needle. His computer is on, and google is up. The clothes Marco wears to garden in are tossed on his floor. It’s just about winter, and he won’t need to garden outdoors anymore. I believe he asked a neighbor to tend his indoor plants. Although I know he’ll miss his garden anyway. It’s the same for me with my dogs. I know my landlord will take care of them but I’ll still be longing for them all week. 

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Marco says, as I sit on his bed to listen to him pitch his speech. “We’ve been planning this trip for weeks and we still don’t even really know what we’re doing. We are _bad_ at planning this trip. Very bad.”

I laugh, but nod so he’ll continue.

“So, what if we just…drive. We get in the car, pick a high way, and just stay on that highway until we bump into something worth seeing. We do this for a few days, stop wherever we want, and then pick a different highway to take us home.” Marco’s pacing the room as he says this. His eyes are wandering all over the place and his hands are waving and pointing as he maps out the unmapped trip in his head. When he finally realizes I haven’t said anything, and that he’s run out of stuff to say, he halts mid-step to see what I think. He inhales, like he’s bracing himself, and presses his lips together. 

I shrug. “Let’s do it.”

“Really?” he responds, his chest deflating in relief that I didn’t reject him.

“Really.”

We go to my place shortly after our decision is made. I pack an article of clothing at a time, because I keep taking a break to pet and kiss Lady and Titan. Lady has been whimpering because she knows something’s up, and poor Titan is clueless. He’s excited when Marco takes him for a walk, and excited when I give him a treat, and excited that Marco is sleeping over all while Lady mopes around. In the morning, I hug them both goodbye and have to dodge a face full of saliva as Marco and I step out the door. 

I’m driving first, so Marco hops in the passenger seat of my car. 

“Ready for an adventure?” he asks, as I pull out of the parking lot of my apartment buildings. My stomach is fluttering with excitement. I haven’t left the state since coming here from Mexico as a kid with my parents. 

“Yeah,” I breathe, and Marco turns to face me. He reaches for my hand and I grip on to it. We’re quiet until we get on to the highway we chose. It’s so early in the morning. The trees surrounding the highway are a deep emerald, as they are not yet illuminated by the coming sun. The sky is a wash of colors on one side and still gray with last night on the other. Marco and I are the only people on the road, and I can pretend we’re the only people in the world. Every square foot of land or ocean is ours to explore. 

“So, I’ve been thinking,” I say.

“Yeah?” he asks. His thumb strokes my hand. 

“I don’t think of my life as chapters of one book. I think too many very different stories have happened in my life to all be part of one. Coming here and learning English as a child is one novel, transitioning is another…and I think the third, hopefully longest book of my life, is the one I share with you.” 

Marco beams at me, his eyes crinkling up into thin crescents. “Yeah? What chapter are we on in our book?”

I think about it. I think about all the books I’ve read, and how many of them are about someone going on an adventure with unforeseen obstacles and treasures. How many of them are about two people meeting and falling in love. And how many of them spend pages describing one night, or how many of them spend a page describing years. Words can make a small thing vast, and they can make a vast thing small, so there is room for the rest of everything and more before the last page. The best part is, once it’s printed on the page, it’s there forever. Even when you’re on the last page, the first page is always right behind. 

I respond, “We’re slow readers. We’re still on page one.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious, my personal tumblr URL is in-agony-and-ecstasy@tumblr.com, and my writing-only tumblr URL is the-only-one-in-color@tumblr.com.


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